


The Exam

by sigo



Category: Man and Boy - Rattigan, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy, The Little Stranger (2018)
Genre: Adam Driver/Domhnall Gleeson Character Combinations, Anal Fingering, Doctor/Patient, First Meetings, Forced Orgasm, M/M, Medical Examination, Mildly Dubious Consent, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Prostate Examinations, Prostate Massage, Smut, this is just porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-05
Updated: 2021-02-05
Packaged: 2021-03-16 20:55:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29213775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sigo/pseuds/sigo
Summary: "For the remainder of the exam, you’ll need to remove your trousers.”“Is that really necessary?” Basil asks, feeling his face heat. He cranes his neck to look back at Faraday.
Relationships: Armitage Hux/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren, Armitage Hux/Kylo Ren, Basil Anthony/Dr Faraday (The Little Stranger)
Comments: 20
Kudos: 65





	The Exam

**Author's Note:**

> Dubcon is just because they're in a doctor/patient role and environment and there's no verbal negotiation, they're both into it. I could have gone in a cute direction with this where there's an established relationship but I uh... DIDN'T.

Basil studies the dark woodgrain of the floor intently, avoiding the curious glances of the other souls in the waiting room. It’s evidently uncommon to see a new face in Warwickshire, and Basil has to admit that as far as new faces go, his own is notable: stacked atop a 6’3 body and with a beak of a nose. If he spoke to anyone he’d be even more conspicuous, his Romanian-American accent at vicious odds with the local lilt. Finally, the door off of the cramped little space with its dreary green walls opens.

“Basil...Anthony?”

Basil looks up into the face of the local doctor -- one of two, or so he understands. This must be the younger one. He’s only a bit older than Basil himself. He’s got a sallow face. He’s pale and thin, with vibrant copper hair trimmed short and gelled down as though that makes the color less ostentatious, and a clipped moustache that screams this is the face of a gentleman. A professional. He’s not exactly handsome. But then Basil stands up, and the doctor smiles up at him mildly, perhaps out of simple curiosity at the appearance of a new patient, and his face is transformed. He’s still not handsome -- he’s _pretty_. Beautiful, even. Basil’s heart flutters and he tries to return the doctor’s smile as he’s ushered into the small private room where he is to be poked and prodded at.

In the doctor’s office there are the same green walls and dark floor as the waiting room, and the white ceiling’s got mold spots in one corner. A heavy desk sits against one wall, the shelf above bursting with books. Some look pristine. Others have spines so cracked the titles are illegible. A calendar sits open on the desk, appointments detailed in a precise hand. The doctor moves briskly over and shuts it, closing the names within out of sight. Behind the calendar is a short cut-crystal whiskey glass with pens in it, but no dust. Basil wonders whether the doctor dumps the pens out at the end of each shift and pulls a bottle from his desk drawer. He wonders whether this man always drinks alone in this little room away from prying eyes, or whether they might meet again at the local pub.

“A physical examination,” The doctor reads off of the notebook in his hand. “I’m rather amazed they require this for employment at Tabbard’s. I’m Doctor Faraday.” His smile is warmer now. Almost friendly. The light from the top pane of the curtained window spills into his eyes, and Basil sees that they’re pale green. He’s stunning. “Are you a cook, or…?”

“No,” Basil says. He doesn’t feel steady on his legs. He leans against the padded examination table. “No, I play. Piano.”

Amused lines appear at the corners of Faraday’s eyes. “Well, you’ve got to be in prime condition for that. Shall we?”

At Basil’s nod, Faraday rattles off a list of complaints, moving from one system of the body to another. Digestive, pulmonary, vascular. Nervous. Basil murmurs a ‘no’ to each suggested problem. Then, Faraday instructs Basil to grip his hands with each of his own. It’s only the briefest contact, but Basil’s stomach flutters at the touch of Faraday’s skin on his. His hands are smaller -- though of course, nearly everyone’s are -- the nails immaculately trimmed and filed. Faraday hums his approval at Basil’s grip strength. He gives Basil directions -- shrug your shoulders, tilt your head this way and that, look up, look down. He shines a flashlight in Basil’s eyes and observes the contraction of his pupils. He has Basil open his mouth, and shines the flashlight there too.

“Good,” Faraday mutters, setting the flashlight aside and bringing his hands up to feel the glands in Basil’s throat. Basil swallows, wishing the sound of it were quieter. The sensation of Faraday’s hands on Basil’s throat, pressing gently but firmly, dredges up something warm and waterlogged in his chest. No one’s touched him so intently since Carol. Basil reaches back and finds the edge of the examination table with one hand, squeezing it to steady himself. “Any pain?” Faraday asks.

“No.”

“Tell me right away, if there is.”

“All right.”

“Roll up your sleeve, please.”

Basil does, unbuttoning the left sleeve of his shirt briskly and shoving it up his forearm. Faraday holds his wrist and takes his pulse, eyes steady on his watch. Basil savors the contact, and Faraday’s nearness. He can smell his cologne, or perhaps his aftershave. It’s spicy, with a perfume-like floral note underneath. Faraday’s eyelashes are golden, his green eyes darting between watch and wrist beneath. Basil feels that his heartbeat must be faster than normal. If so, Faraday doesn’t comment on it.

Next is blood pressure. Basil unbuttons his shirt fully and slides the left arm out of it so that Faraday can access his bicep. He thinks that Faraday squeezes the muscle more firmly than necessary as he slides the cuff on, and then chides himself for that thought. It’s a bit monstrous, isn’t it, to build such a fantasy? Especially in Faraday’s presence.

“A bit high,” says Faraday, once the cuff has been inflated and the pressure released. “Watch your diet.”

“Yes, sir,” Basil says drily, and Faraday favors him with a smirk as he removes the blood pressure cuff.

“Keep this off for now,” Faraday says, meaning the shirt. He turns away and then back with a stethoscope in hand. “Deep breaths.” Basil breathes as instructed while Faraday presses cold metal against his stomach, his chest. Basil’s nipples pebble up. Faraday has him turn around and repeats the process on his back, and then palpates it with his hands, feeling along Basil’s spine. “You’ve got an abundance of moles. Be sure and come back if any of them change shape or color. For the remainder of the exam, you’ll need to remove your trousers. You may put your shirt back on.”

“Is that really necessary for a musician’s employment?” Basil asks, feeling his face heat. He cranes his neck to look back at Faraday instead of turning around.

For the first time, Faraday’s pleasantly distant expression falters. His face twitches, looking irritated. No, looking _caught_. Guilty. “How long has it been since your last physical?” Faraday says, and his voice is not politely inquisitive. It’s authoritative, the voice of a man accustomed to patients who behave themselves in the face of a schooled man. Something in the pit of Basil’s belly goes molten at the hard, defensive edge in that voice.

Wordlessly, Basil turns around, looming over Faraday. They might have similar heights, but Basil is much thicker. If Faraday registers this, it doesn’t show. He glares up, fearless. Challenging. “It’s been a while,” Basil admits. He doesn’t think he’s had a full physical since childhood, and back then the lower examination was cursory. “But everything’s functioning. Scout’s honor.” And, taking the risk, Basil winks.

There’s a faint worry-line between Faraday’s orange eyebrows, and it deepens now, and then smooths out. “You need my signature on these forms. In order to sign off on your health confidently, I must complete a full exam,” Faraday says evenly. He’s got that tight little smile again, and there’s genuine warmth in it. He likes being in charge. Basil would put money on it.

“If you insist,” Basil says lightly, his one anxiety about stripping down in front of Doctor Faraday somewhat assuaged by this banter. He’s almost certain he’s not alone in his attraction. Faraday backs up to give Basil room to bend and unlace his shoes. He toes out of them and then shucks his pants off and tosses them onto the chair in the corner.

“You can lay on your side, or bend over the table,” Faraday says. Basil bends. “Feet further apart. Perfect.” And then Faraday’s hand is on his balls. “Turn your head and cough.”

Basil does.

“No sign of hernia.” Faraday releases him. Basil hears him moving, pulling a rubber glove onto one hand and slicking it with medical lubricant from a bottle on the side table.

“Most patients find this uncomfortable. It shouldn’t be painful. If you feel any pain--”

“Uh-huh, got it.” Basil shuts his eyes and bites his lower lip, anticipating the touch of Doctor Faraday’s fingers. At least they aren’t as big as his own. Basil has always been especially sensitive to stimulation in this way. It was a great discovery in the bedroom. It has the potential to be more than mortifying here. He clenches his fists, leaning down on his forearms on the table, and focuses on breathing in and out. The thick rubber glove Faraday has donned adds girth to his digits, and when the gloved pads of Faraday’s fingers rub against Basil’s rim, a nervous thrill flows through his core. Basil breathes out through his nose and swallows loudly, with a click in his throat, but narrowly avoids making an even more embarrassing sound. His face heats. So do his ears. They must be bright red, sticking out from his dark hair. His cock twitches. “Sorry,” Basil says reflexively, embarrassed even if Faraday couldn’t see it, but speaking was the wrong move. Just then, Faraday presses his pointer finger inside to the first knuckle, and Basil’s apology turns into a grunt. There’s more than a twitch in his nether regions now.

“It’s perfectly natural,” says Faraday, but his voice is tight. “A natural reaction. A little discomfort is normal. Tell me if there’s any pain.” He’s repeating himself. They’ve only just met, but Basil thinks that’s unusual for Faraday. He’s distracted.

 _You and I both know this isn’t discomfort, Doc_ , Basil thinks, and chances a look back at the man behind him. Faraday’s face doesn’t betray much — he wears his current facial expression like a mask. But his high cheekbones are flushed pink, the skin of his throat peeking up from his collar is going a rather spectacular red, and his pupils are blown wide, his gaze fixed down on where he’s probing Basil’s body. His full lips are soft, thoughtful. When he breathes in, it’s sharp. As though he’s forgotten to do so until his lungs cried out for it. Faraday’s touch, as ever, is gentle but firm. His finger pushes in, opening Basil up, and then he slowly rotates it, feeling around. Basil shudders when Faraday brushes his prostate, and then Faraday presses around it in tightening circles to the center, assessing its condition. He _rubs_ it, and crooks his finger, applying delicious pressure. A massage of the most intimate sort.

Basil finds himself pushing back, sliding one foot out further minutely and angling his hips back for more. Faraday obliges, withdrawing and pushing a second finger inside, and Basil’s next breath shakes. The padding of the table feels damp under his hands. He’s sweating. He’s glad he chose to bend over in front of Faraday instead of lying exposed beneath him, where Faraday would see how pink Basil is, flushed hot from his forehead down onto his chest. His cock is flushed too, and standing at half-mast. Basil feels a trickle of pre-come sliding out of him when Faraday circles two fingers around his prostate.

“Making a mess of your floor,” Basil says, and his voice is rough.

“It’s no trouble,” says Faraday, affecting a light tone, as if he were talking about a bit of rain in the forecast. He does not quite manage it -- his own voice is breathy, the sound of it combined with the ministrations of his hand making Basil’s legs tremble.

Sparks build in Basil’s groin, the beginnings of orgasm approaching, and _that’s_ quite the realization -- Faraday hasn’t even touched Basil’s cock. It’s been too long since Basil sought out release for himself. Basil hasn’t prioritized meeting partners since the move, or kept up his regular masturbation schedule. “Fuck,” Basil says. Means to say it under his breath. It’s a bit louder than that, and Faraday’s reaction is instant. He claps his bare hand over Basil’s mouth and drags him up almost to standing with a wiry strength Basil hadn’t suspected his skinny frame of possessing. Faraday presses against Basil’s backside from shoulder to heel. With Faraday this close, Basil can feel the heat of his body through his clothes. He can smell that enticing cologne again, and also a faint trace of sweat. Faraday’s breathing nearly as hard as Basil is. Basil feels it on the shell of his ear, then his neck as Faraday tilts his head. His full lips brush just above Basil’s collar unthinkingly, the touch so light Basil might have dreamed it.

Basil moans into Faraday’s palm, the sound muffled. Is it muffled enough? There are other patients waiting just outside the door, sniffling and shuffling their feet in that bleak room, nursing their ails until the doctor makes time to hear them out, and accept their precious shillings for the favor. Basil looks at a chip in the green paint on the wall in front of him. It seems wider than when he first noticed it, the edges of the paint cracking and curling up. He listens to Faraday’s feverish breathing, the rhythm of it in time with his own. He closes his eyes and memorizes the feeling of Faraday’s shaky exhalation hot on the side of his neck, and the relentless assault of Faraday’s gloved fingers deep inside him driving him to climax. Faraday’s moustache prickles against Basil’s neck, deliciously rough, and the bubble of pleasure bursts, flooding him, flooding out of him. He’s drooled into Faraday’s hand. Faraday works him through the aftershocks and then pulls his fingers out of Basil’s limp body, removes his hand from Basil’s face. A string of saliva comes away with it and snaps. Basil collapses back onto his forearms on the table, sagging there.

“Everything seems to be in order, Mr. Anthony,” Faraday says. His tone is not dry and professional. He sounds shaken. Fatigued. Basil can empathize.

“You might as well call me Basil.”

“Let me guess. Mr. Anthony was your father.”

“No,” Basil says, and laughs. “As a matter of fact, he wasn’t. But I’d still prefer it.”

“Basil,” Faraday says, stripping the glove off. He picks up his notebook, writes something and tears a page free. “This is what John Tabbard wants for his new musical talent. Clean bill of health.” He starts to hold the paper out to Basil and then takes in Basil’s unchanged state. Half-nude and disheveled, prick dripping onto the soiled floor. Faraday coughs. “Right.” He retrieves a soft rag to wipe Basil clean with.

“I can--”

“Allow me. There. You can dress.”

Basil catches Faraday’s arm before he can bustle away again. “I’d like it if you came by sometime. To the bar. I’m playing every weekend, and Thursdays too.”

Faraday is already gathering himself up -- he’s still faintly pink, but that mild expression from before is coming back, dilated pupils shrinking. Basil wonders whether the good doctor stiffened in his pants as he worked Basil to orgasm. Whether that stiffy is completely gone yet, like it never existed. “Will that be all for now?” Faraday asks, and Basil blinks in surprise. Faraday doesn’t wait for an answer. He presses the sheet torn from his notebook into Basil’s chest and lets go, so that Basil has to take it, and then turns his back, shuffling things on his desk. Basil thinks he’s moving items randomly. That he’s the sort of man to keep his desk in order to begin with.

Basil dresses slowly, unwilling to remove himself from Doctor Faraday’s space as rapidly as it seems Faraday would prefer. Faraday does not turn away from his desk. His ears, smaller than Basil's, are still just as red. The back of his neck is still flushed above the collar of his white coat, below his close-cropped ginger hair. His body betrays his interest. Otherwise Basil might doubt the encounter had occurred, Faraday’s posture is so rigid and forbidding. Finally, Basil’s all laced up without another reason to dawdle.

“Thursday,” Basil says again, and exits. He thinks he sees Faraday shift to get a parting look at him.

**Author's Note:**

> I'll publish plot again someday. I'm writing plot with these two, but here's a short porny 'extra' (unrelated to WIPs). If you like basilday I talk about it frequently on twitter.


End file.
